


remember when

by dustbear



Series: the tiny spaces [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbear/pseuds/dustbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They move on, because they have to. Because the world still needs saving, because they’ve all lost people they’ve loved, because it’s what Phil would have wanted. They move on, because it is what they are supposed to do. They are super heroes, SHIELD agents, defenders of the Earth, protectors of the weak, and they cannot stop to grieve.</p><p>The memorial for Agent Phil Coulson is well attended. Clint and Natasha stand in the back. They do not take off their sunglasses.</p><p>---</p><p>Fury rubs his temples. “Alright. Fine. As much as I hate to say it, it's actually a relief to be able to tell you.” he says. “Agent Coulson is alive.”</p><p>"Are you going to tell us where, or do I have to hack it out of you?” Tony snipes.</p><p>Fury ignores Tony, “A SHIELD safe house in Portland. I’ll give you the address. But only Clint can go.”</p><p>“Why only Clint?” Natasha demands.</p><p>“Because,” and Fury sighs deeply, and sadly, “Clint is the only one he still remembers.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They move on, because they have to. Because the world still needs saving, because they’ve all lost people they’ve loved, because it’s what Phil would have wanted. They move on, because it is what they are supposed to do. They are super heroes, SHIELD agents, defenders of the Earth, protectors of the weak, and they cannot stop to grieve.

The memorial for Agent Phil Coulson is well attended. Clint and Natasha stand in the back. They do not take off their sunglasses.

Natasha requests Maria Hill as her new handler. She gets herself assigned to as many missions as she can, even without Clint as a partner. Her mission reports become even more thorough. She obeys orders. All of them. Hill's reports do not have notes about “excessive risk taking”, or “failure to adhere to mission protocol”. Agent Romanoff, the Black Widow, goes back to work.

Clint moves into Stark Tower, because there are still many stares and whispers about him on the helicarrier. An investigation has cleared him, and he’s been reinstated to active duty, but for many people, nothing can erase a video feed of him with Loki-blue eyes, and his unerring bow pulled taut. Clint understands. He keeps his quarters on the helicarrier, and he comes in daily for training, but he doesn’t spend any more time there than he has to. He has not been assigned a new handler, just tossed into the specialist pool, to be requested as needed.  

Natasha moves into Stark Tower as well. Clint watches as she drifts closer to Steve, and notices how she spends hours with him in the basement woodshop, always emerging sawdust-covered and pleased. He sees the way she's started to look at Bruce too - fondly, openly - he watches her laugh, and argue with the others, and he is happy for the family she has found in this ragtag group of misfits. He is happy for her, he insists to himself. Delighted. He still feels out of place. The outcast. A hanger-on. The one that can't quite move on properly. He doesn't let it show; his time in the circus and enough espionage training has given him plenty of practice acting nonchalant, but when he is alone, he stares into nothing and strains to still hear Phil's voice in his ear.

Of course, Clint had also been the one to harbour a stupid crush on Phil the moment he joined SHIELD. But over five years, it had grown into a solid respect, and then to friendship. It was still a crush though. And a stupid, unrequited one, until their last mission together in New Mexico. But then there was Loki, filling his head and his eyes and his hands and his heart, and Clint had come back to Natasha’s solemn face and hesitant voice, and a gigantic, inescapable, hole in his being where Phil had somehow inexplicably burrowed into.

Clint inherits Phil Coulson's coffee mug. There is nothing special about it, but Clint starts drinking coffee from it anyway. It is identical to every other black SHIELD logo-ed mug in the building, except for a small chip on the handle.

He is clutching it, even though the coffee is long gone, when Natasha slides into his quarters on the Helicarrier, which he was certain was locked.

"You can't keep on like this, Clint." Natasha says, softly.

"What am I supposed to do? Just move on? Like you have?" Clint spits out, bitterly.

Natasha's face is cold and Clint almost regrets what he's said when she softens and blurts out - "I'm not sure he's dead."

\---

It was there all along, in the heap of papers on Clint's desk, and in Natasha's better organized file folders. She flips through the papers on his desk until she finds it and slides it over to him. "Do you remember? We filled these out in Budapest."

Clint remembers mocking Phil as the senior agent insisted that they fill the forms out, sitting in an awful Budapest safe house that had about a 65% chance of not being particularly safe anymore.

"Really, Coulson? The likelihood of us living through this is minimal. My advanced medical directive is whatever SHIELD wants." he remembers saying.

Clint had paused over the space for his medical proxy. "Coulson, you are my medical proxy. Natasha, you are second proxy." Natasha laughed at that, saying that he had picked the two people he was most likely to die with. Which was true. But he had no one else to call family, really. Just Phil. And Natasha.

They had made it to their extraction point the next day, and when they returned home, Phil made Clint and Natasha copies of his own medical directive "just to have on file." Clint had rolled his eyes then; Phil could somehow find paperwork for anything and everything. Now Natasha was flipping the pages over for him. He'd only looked at it long enough to see if Phil had a family(yes, a sister, and a mother, widowed), and promptly added it to his months-high pile of unfinished filing. He was never good at filing. "Right here," she points to a line on the third page.

"Organ donation. How is that relevant?"

"No, below that," and Clint sees it and it is the first crack of hope, no matter how unreliable, that he's had in months. In Phil Coulson's neat handwriting is the sentence "I would prefer cremation."

"Want to go tonight?" Natasha asks, and Clint doesn't need to ask her what she's thinking.

"There's a hardware store near the cemetery." he suggests.

\---

They purchase shovels from the hardware store. The situation is so ridiculous, and after one foot of dirt, Natasha pauses and chuckles awkwardly.

"Clint. I just dragged you out to a graveyard to check on our former handler's coffin because of one sentence on a medical directive form." she sighs.

"Correct, a sentence his mother may have chosen to ignore anyway in favor of burial."

"Or perhaps SHIELD made the arrangements and never checked." Natasha points out.

“Or maybe he changed the directive after Budapest. It is two years old.” Clint suggests.

"Keep digging?"

"Hell yeah." Clint exclaims, digging his shovel down into the dirt.

Another foot of dirt later, they are interrupted by Tony Stark, gliding down in the Iron Man suit.

"I'm not going to ask what you are doing here, but I have started several queries running against SHIELD's medical databases.  And against Phil's employee record as well." Tony says, landing softly, and pulling out what looks like a foldable, and very ergonomic...shovel.

"Thank you," Natasha says, and Clint just nods.

With the three of them working, the coffin is unearthed in just an hour. It is a simple standard issue black pine coffin, the same one they watched get lowered into the ground as honor guard rifles rang out months ago.. "Ladies first?" Stark gestures to the coffin and Natasha jams the edge of her shovel in below the coffin's lid. Together, they get the lid open.

It is not empty.

"Not what you were expecting?" Stark asks.

"No." Natasha responds, curtly.

Clint looks at the decomposing man in the coffin, no longer fitting the tailored suit the way Phil Coulson would have and Clint wants to believe so badly that this man is not Phil Coulson, so of course, what he says is  "How can we be sure that's him?"

"I don't know." Natasha says.

"Bruce can run a DNA sample?" Tony responds.

Clint nods, and Tony retrieves a small bag from his suit and puts a clipping of hair in it. "You carry evidence bags in that suit?" Natasha queries, eyebrow raised. Tony shakes his head. "I thought this might happen," he explains, and Clint feels grateful that he's not the only one clinging on to this ridiculous hope that  Phil Coulson might somehow be alive.

\---

Natasha and Clint spend the next day pacing around the living room.

“I have good news and bad news.” Tony says, striding in the moment the elevator doors open.

“Bad first.” Natasha insists.

“Neither JARVIS nor I could find anything anything in SHIELD records. Phil Coulson’s benefits were paid out to his family, his death certificate is on file, and there been no activity from any bank or safe house ever associated with him, or any of his personas. We've run facial recognition software, biometric signatures...everything.”

“And the good?”

“The DNA tests came back and the man in the coffin is not him.”

Natasha lights up, “So, he’s alive. We just haven’t found him!“ she exclaims.

“That is one way of looking at it” Stark says. “Actually, I prefer that way of looking at it.”

Clint is thoughtful, his fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on the coffee table. “Tony? Can you have JARVIS check for any aberrations with any new trainees, recruits or applications entering the system after Coulson’s file was closed? I don't think they're kept in the central SHIELD databases.”

“Yes. Explain why?”

“It's...just a hunch. There’s no way SHIELD wouldn't use Phil Coulson if they could find a way to. He’s their top agent. They’re not throwing him away that easily - not unless they absolutely had to.” Clint hopes that he's explaining the idea correctly.

Tony purses his lips, considering it, and leaves.

Natasha and Clint pace further. They do not speak. Clint eventually settles on the couch and stares into blank space. It is a practiced technique, one honed over years of rooftop sniper duty. He clears his mind, but only mostly succeeds. The absence of Phil’s voice in his ear is the heaviest absence that has ever been present.

Tony returns to the kitchen in two hours, solemn.

“You were right, Clint.” he says, pulling up holograms that scatter over the smooth dining room table surface. Clint thinks that maybe he prefers file folders.

Clint pokes at the screens. The test results for a Patrick Campbell. No picture. He has tested with SHIELD to qualify as a field agent. Six times. Then, as a analyst. Four times. Then finally, as a clerk. Three times. Then the mail room. Just the mail room. Twice. In any of these cases, he has never made it past the preliminary round of qualification testing.

“No one has tested this much to get into SHIELD. Ever.“ Tony says.

“SHIELD does not allow do-overs. You’re supposed to pass on the first try.” Natasha adds.

“You think it’s him?” Clint says, running his hands over the words reverently.

Tony Stark waves his hand over the scores and sighs. “I don’t know how much of Phil is there.”

Clint flips through the scores and winces. “Well. They do get better every time.“

Natasha grimaces. She pulls up the sheet for the firearms qualifications, all fifteen of them. “Look, Clint. His latest scores with a Glock 19. Off by eight inches at 100 yards.”

“That’s awful. What is his standard accuracy?” Stark asks.

Clint doesn’t answer, even though he knows and it makes his stomach sink. Phil Coulson is an excellent shot. He ranks in the top 5% of active SHIELD field agents.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to go sit in Fury’s office until I get an answer,” Clint insists.

“I’ll go with you,” Natasha and Tony say in unison.

\---

In the end, everyone goes - Steve, Bruce, Tony, Thor, Natasha and Clint. Pepper is there too, but she waits outside, fidgeting with copies of the Patrick Campbell folder as the room erupts into shouting. Impressively, Tony does not try to leverage Stark Industries’ work for SHIELD, but merely stands straight and glowers, which is improbably more effective.

“This dishonesty cannot be tolerated!” Thor bellows, his large shoulders taking up far more space in the office than they should.

“I am unhappy about this.” Bruce threatens.

“Fury, this is completely unacceptable.” Steve commands.

“I have the contact information for Phil’s family and will not hesitate to recommend they sue for negligence. With our extremely competent lawyers, of course,” says Pepper, sliding into the room once the furor quiets down.

Fury rubs his temples. “Alright. Fine. As much as I hate to say it, it's actually a relief to be able to tell you.” he says. “Agent Coulson is alive.”

"Are you going to tell us where, or do I have to hack it out of you?” Tony snipes.

Fury ignores Tony, “A SHIELD safe house in Portland. I’ll give you the address. But only Clint can go.”

“Why only Clint?” Natasha demands.

“Because,” and Fury sighs deeply, and sadly, “Clint is the only one he still remembers.” He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out another folder, this one with a gigantic CLASSIFIED stamp on it, “The actual medical report. It exists only on paper - I knew you’d try to hack in, Stark.”

Bruce takes it and reads, “Cerebral hypoxia. Brain deprived of oxygen for six minutes. ” He flips the page. “Retrograde amnesia, spanning up to two decades. Cognitive changes include significant reduction in ability to sustain attention, as well as reduced processing speed.“ Flip. “Reduced motor functions.” He turns the report over to the end. “Full recovery is not expected. Partial recovery is anticipated; physical, speech and cognitive rehabilitation therapy is recommended weekly.”

The room is eerily silent. Pepper is trembling slightly.

“He’d doing well. He can walk. He can talk.“ Fury explains, reassuringly.

Clint swallows. “Is he still...Ph- um, Coulson?”

Fury places his hands together thoughtfully. “Enough of him is,” he promises.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint knows how important Phil Coulson is to SHIELD, but it becomes much more clear as he steps out of the unmarked black car and walks towards the innocuous looking safehouse in Portland. It looks like a normal, small, residential house, perhaps on the run down end. He looks back at the cars parallel parked along the street. His is not the only unmarked car.

He takes a deep breath, and rings the doorbell. He hears some shuffling, and Maria Hill opens it.

“Agent Hill. You are not the person I was expecting.” Clint remarks.

Hill nods. “We’re about to start physical therapy for the day. Would you like to join?”

Clint follows her wordlessly, as she walks down the hall and waves at - oh, there’s Phil, Clint thinks. He is sitting on the couch, dressed in khakis and a button down shirt, smiling congenially.

“Clint.” Phil says, turning to Agent Hill and smiling wide.

“Yes, that’s Clint Barton. Would you like to say hi to Barton?”

“Of course.” Coulson stands up, a bit unsteadily, and opens his arms.

“You want a hug?” Clint stammers, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He comes around the couch and gingerly hugs Phil, who hugs back, strongly. The openness startles Clint, and it occurs to him that this is their first real hug. “Thank you for coming, Clint.” Phil says, and he sounds so much like the Phil he’s always known - speaking the words Clint has always wanted to hear -  and Clint doesn’t want to let go. Phil doesn’t seem to want to let go either, and Clint feels Phil’s hands rub appreciatively over his arms and he can’t help but stiffen slightly, and awkwardly, with the undue amount of attention.

“Would you like Clint to stay for therapy?” Hill interrupts.

“Yes. Clint, you should stay.” Phil says, finally letting go.

“I didn’t know you were a physical therapist, Hill.” Clint says, quizzically.

“I was. A doctorate in Biokinesiology, actually. Coulson is a significant SHIELD asset, and we have few therapists with the suitable clearance levels to work with him." she shrugs, "Come and watch. He’s come a really long way already.”

“You’re SHIELD second in command - and he has you playing physical therapist?”

“Let’s just say that we’re very invested in Coulson’s recovery,” and she does not offer further explanation.

Clint watches the whole day. Fury’s right, Coulson can walk and talk perfectly fine, and as the day goes by, he works his way around the house even more fluidly, even if he seems to be paying an extra dose of attention to all his movements. His speech therapist plays Scrabble with him, and Clint sees Coulson play the word “BYZANTINE” for one hundred and forty two points and he feels assured that Phil is definitely still there. They just have to wait, and work a little, and Phil Coulson - the old one - will be back, in his entirety. Clint regrets that thought the moment he thinks it. No, Phil is always Phil, and he cares about him, even if he weren’t great at Scrabble, even if he’s never Agent Coulson again, even he doesn’t remember all the moments that Clint desperately clings to.

“What about occupational therapy?” Clint asks Hill, when Phil is the backyard with his cognitive therapist.

“I don’t think we’ll let him join the regular workforce. His clearance level is right below Fury’s.  SHIELD will pay disability or his regular income, whichever is greater, for the rest of his life.” Hill answers.

“I meant occupational therapy for...SHIELD.”

Hill pauses. “We’re not ready for that yet.” she says.

“He’s tried to go through SHIELD qualifications fifteen times. You let him do that.”

“We...hoped that it would help him get over the fact that he may never work for SHIELD again.”

“Fifteen times, Hill. He tried to get through _mail room_ qualifications.”

Hill nods sadly. “I know, Barton. I know.”

He doesn’t want to leave the safe house, but Agent Hill assures him that the cognitive therapist is also a field qualified agent, and there were two other junior agents watching the house. He lets her direct him out to her own unmarked car, and down the street to a small coffeeshop, where Hill sits him down firmly.

She orders them two coffees, black. Phil takes his coffee with cream and sugar, Clint thinks. Does Phil still like it that way? 

“Stop moping, Barton. He’s recovering well. Physically, he is in good shape, albeit with some loss of motor function. Cognitively, he is doing well. It occasionally takes him time to get his thoughts straight, and you did get in early in the morning, but he is communicating at an adult level. His memory - well, it is...selective. He remembers the vague outlines of being a SHIELD agent, but otherwise, his clearest memories are from two decades ago.”

“What does he remember?” Clint asks.

“Well, he remembers Captain America.”

“Steve?"

“No, not Steve. Just Captain America. He doesn’t remember the...defrosting. And he remembers being a SHIELD agent, but no specifics. He remembers you.”

Clint pauses. “What does he remember about me?”

“I think you should go and find out, Barton.” Hill suggests.

Maria Hill arranges for Clint to take the place of the SHIELD agent assigned to overnight watch duty in the house. “I think this will be your semi-permanent assignment, if you don’t mind. We think that having you around may speed up Coulson’s recollection. He remembers you, after all.”

“Thanks,” Clint says. It’s all he can say right now, but he thinks that there is some understanding in Hill’s expression. Agent Hill merely nods, and turns away before Clint's eyes can dare to well up in front of her.

\---

Clint looks out the window, spotting the two junior agents sitting outside in a car on watch duty. He’ll have to bring them a decent dinner, he decides - watch duty is always decidedly unfun, and cold sandwiches don’t make the waiting any better. Clint takes an inventory of the fridge and pantry for dinner, finding only a smattering of ingredients and a freezer stuffed with frozen meals.

He finds a can of crushed tomatoes, butter, an onion and spaghetti. He'll make do. He starts on dinner, and it's an hour before he feels a pair of eyes on him.

Clint looks at Phil, who’s hovering nervously by the entryway. “What have they been feeding you, Coulson? There's nothing decent here.”

“Take-out, mostly. They won’t let me cook.”

“That’s because you’re an awful cook, Coulson.”

“I’m not that bad.” Phil shrugs, sheepishly.

“I do all the cooking.”

Phil Coulson stares at Clint. Yes, that’s right. Clint does the cooking. The first time was a safehouse in Austria. He doesn't remember the mission well, except that it was unremarkable, and Clint had made hamburgers. There were no hamburger buns, so the meat had been wedged between two large slices of a fresh baked loaf of shepherd's bread from a market Clint had somehow found the time to stop at. Against orders. He remembers saying “Hawkeye, transfer position to Building 4, plant camera, and proceed to safehouse,” and most certainly did not include “ - and please pick up groceries between buildings, thanks.” The hamburgers were delicious. Clint had made hamburgers in Austria and that was the first time he had cooked, and now he was cooking again and Phil loves Clint's cooking. Clint is the only place he ever gets home-cooked food.

“Coulson, are you okay?” Clint asks, worriedly, and Phil opens his eyes.

“Yes. I was just thinking...you make hamburgers too, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Clint swallows, focusing on plating dinner with slightly shaky hands. “In Austria, that one time. If you remember.”

“I remember Austria. You made hamburgers in Austria.” 

“What about Rome?” Clint sets down a plate of pasta, with a simple marinara sauce.

Phil sits at the dinner table, frustrated. He knows this dish sitting in front of him. 

Clint waits silently, busying himself with his own plate of food.

Rome. The memory of Rome is there, a little. Clint is walking down a cobblestone path, joking with a girl with red hair, Phil Coulson remembers. They are following someone, someone that they have to stop, someone with something important. Weapons? Information? His memory flits back to their safe house, and its tiny kitchenette. Clint is laughing, opening a fresh can of San Marzano tomatoes and expressing his delight over them. The girl with red hair overcooks the spaghetti the first time, and Clint grumbles about it, and insists that he has to do it again. He remembers Clint scooping a stewed onion out of the tomato sauce, and spreads it with basil and garlic over bread. It is exquisite.

The sauce is light, and tangy and buttery, and tastes like fresh summer. Clint grates a block of parmesan over it, and it is delicious, and Phil remembers that about Rome.

Here, in Portland, Clint offers him powdered Kraft parmesan cheese from a plastic bottle.

“I remember, in Rome. You made this. It was delicious.” Phil says.

Clint beams. “That’s great, Coulson. You’re right. Except those tomatoes were much better than this canned bullshit.”

Coulson grins, ”Good enough for government work. It’s delicious. Thanks, Clint.”

After dinner, Phil insists on washing the dishes, although Clint tries to refuse. Phil frowns. “For god sake Clint, I’m brain damaged, not an invalid,” he snaps, “I can do the dishes.” The crankiness startles Clint and then comforts him. He knows cranky Phil, he’s worked with cranky Phil a whole lot, because he is usually the reason for cranky Phil, and this is actually familiar territory. He brings the junior agents outside warm containers of pasta.

Phil does the dishes very carefully, and precisely, and if he is a little bit slow and methodical placing them in the dishwasher, Clint doesn’t care. Phil is still Phil, and there is this warmth filling him up - Phil is alive! But then, a mound of regret builds up in his chest - regret for not admitting his feelings to Phil sooner, regret for not finding him months earlier.

Clint shakes the regret out of his head. That was then. This is now. This is Phil, and he’s still Phil. And judging from the way he has moved to the couch and is flipping through the recordings, Phil wants to watch Supernanny.

“Supernanny, really?” Clint sighs.

“I love Supernanny.” Phil insists. 

“You have retained your awful taste in television. Out of all things.”

“It’s not that bad,” Phil says, and pauses. “It reminds me of you, Clint.” Phil can’t quite remember why, but it does.

Clint’s heart skips a bit at the inside joke, but Phil’s face is open, as if it were an honest statement, and not wry sarcasm. It is not the practiced deadpan that Clint is familiar with, and his hope wavers a a bit. They watch a few episodes in silence, Phil snickering gently at intervals.  

“Do-do you remember what you used to do, Coulson?” Clint ventures, during a commercial break.

“Of course. I was a SHIELD Special Agent.”

“You were my handler. Do you remember that?”

“ _Yes._ ” Coulson looks annoyed at the elementary questions. “You’re Hawkeye.”

“Do you remember our mission in Budapest?”

Phil shakes his head slightly. No.

“Do you remember the mission in Rome? Besides the spaghetti.”

Phil concentrates, furrowing his brow, and then shakes his head. No. Just the parts with _you_ in them, he wants to say, and has to focus an undue amount of energy to hold it back.

Clint wants to ask about New Mexico, but he doesn’t really want to know that Phil doesn’t remember that either. 

“What do you remember about me?” Clint chokes out before he can stop himself.

Phil looks at Clint and smiles softly.

“All the important parts.” he says, automatically taking Clint’s hand. He's tired, and words spill out. “And I also remember that you’re supposed to call me Phil.”And he curls up against Clint’s side and falls asleep.

Clint sits on the couch, Phil’s hand still forcibly intertwined in his, unsure of how to proceed. Yeah, he used to call him Phil. It took a year and two months of working together. He turns the TV off with his other hand, trying not to jolt Phil with sudden movements.

It was in the SHIELD cafeteria, out of all places, that Phil had said that. They had just finished a debriefing, for a simple mission with no particular highlights that anyone would remember. Well, there were no mission highlights, Clint smiles thinking about it. They had spent twelve hours driving across the Midwest, just the two of them on one of their first partnered missions, in pursuit of a possible arms dealer. He had learned about Phil’s predilection for acid jazz and powdered doughnuts. They had talked a lot, that trip, at least by Phil Coulson standards, which was not an awful lot, but enough. Phil was the first person he had ever told about his brother, Barney. He didn’t say much - just that he had a brother. And they didn’t stay in touch. He remembers staring stonily out the window, willing himself not to show emotion, but Phil had understood the words that Clint didn't speak. He’d just given Clint’s arm a squeeze and said, “Hey, I’ve got your back now.” 

And back at the SHIELD cafeteria, Clint is catching the apple that rolls off Coulson’s precariously perched tray, as the agent tries to balance it and retrieve his SHIELD meal card at the same time.

“I saved your apple in distress, Coulson.” Clint had smirked.

“For god sake, call me Phil already.” Phil grumbles, and that is it.

It’s a small thing, but Clint remembers it anyway. He closes his eyes. Ironically, he thinks, this is the closest Phil has ever let him be. “He’d have to be brain damaged to love me,” Clint thinks to himself, and lets out a difficult laugh at the mean joke.

He sits there motionless for an hour, holding Phil in his lap. Finally, he decides that Hill will be royally pissed if he lets Phil sleep on the couch.

“Hey Phil, wake up. Let’s get you to bed, okay?” Clint nudges Phil gently, slowly disentangling his fingers.

“Clint?” Phil says, starting awake.

“Yeah?”

“When I get better, they’ll let me be a SHIELD agent again, right?” he asks, sleepily..

“Yeah, Phil. Of course. You were the best.”

“The best.” Phil murmurs, as Clint leads him to his room and tucks him into bed.

\---

The next day, Clint slips out when Agent Hill arrives for her shift, and he calls Pepper Potts.

“How is Phil?” Pepper immediately picks up the phone.

“He’s doing well. He doesn’t remember much, but it seems to be coming back slowly. Hey, I wanted to ask Tony something, but I realized you’d probably know much better.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Do you know a good tailor in Portland?”

Clint comes sauntering back into the house right after Phil’s speech therapy session, two garment bags lightly draped over his arm. He hear the shower running in Phil’s room.

“What are those?” Hill asks, poking her head out of the study.

“Suits.”

“Suits?” Hill narrows her eyes at him.

“Yeah, for Phil. He’s lost some weight, but fortunately he’s still a close-to-standard size, and I had Pepper and JARVIS project the current measurements based on my estimates, and a Stark Industries credit card really gets rush orders done, apparently.” Clint explains.

“Why would we put Phil in a suit, Barton?”

“Because Phil Coulson wears suits.” Clint states, as if it were an obvious fact. Which it is.

Clint hangs the two suits, five dress shirts, and three ties up in Phil’s room, straightening the transport creases with his hands. He isn’t one much for shopping for suits, but Pepper had helped a lot, and he reminds himself to send her thank you flowers. He hears the shower turn off, and starts to leave, but Phil has already stepped out, in nothing but a towel wrapped around himself, rivulets of water still resting on his pale skin.

“Um, I got these for you,” Clint stutters, averting his eyes. “Dark grey, and black. I hope they fit?” and he quickly steps out, closing the door firmly behind him.

Oh god, Clint thinks, leaning against the closed bedroom door. Phil is gorgeous, all sinewy muscles and tight skin, marked by scars that tell stories, some of which Clint knows, some of which Clint’s been a part of, and some of which still hold secrets that Clint wants to trace with his fingernails and pull out slowly, carefully, to help bear the painful burdens of the stories he doesn’t yet know.

A suit, Phil thinks, running his hand over the smooth dark grey wool. There is something intimately familiar about the motions that are required to put on a suit, and Phil feels himself doing it from muscle memory. Yes, he knows this. Very well. He slips into the pants easily, and fumbles his buttons a little, but this - this feels absolutely correct.

He stops at the tie. Over, under, around? He concentrates further. Over, under, over and then around?

“Clint?” he asks quietly, knowing the other man is standing guard right outside the door. “I need help.”

Clint bursts into the room immediately, like a man who doesn’t think he’s been called in to help with a tie.

“Oh,” Clint says, embarrassed. He can’t help it, this is _Phil Coulson_ , standing in front of him, holding a tie in his hands - oh, he picked the dark purple one - Clint’s heart leaps a little at that. The top two buttons of Phil’s shirt are still unbuttoned, and the fabric skims over his body, now leaner, but still strong, and Phil’s hair is still damp and rumpled from the shower and Clint just wants to kiss the man all over. “Um,” he says, tamping down his rather inappropriate emotions, “I can help with the tie.”

This is what Clint remembers. Four years ago, Clint is standing in a hotel room, staring down at a dark grey, lightly pinstriped suit as Coulson steps out of the shower. He tries not to watch as Coulson gets dressed, quickly and efficiently, tries not to pay attention to Coulson’s tight muscles and graceful movements, so hidden under the unassuming demeanor, but clearly competent and practiced.

Clint hurriedly puts on the pants, he knows how to put on pants. Then the shirt, which he hastily tucks in behind his belt. He stops at the tie, fidgeting at the silk band nervously.

“Er, about this,” he says, looking at the senior agent, holding the tie helplessly.

“Come here, I’ll do that,” Phil had gestured, and he didn’t make fun of Clint for not knowing how to tie a tie. Clint remembers Phil pulling him close, close enough to smell the standard issue soap that always had undertones of vanilla with Phil. Clint remembers the confident hands, briskly working the knot and remembers holding his breath, trying not to stare at Phil, and desperately hoping that his cheeks were not too flushed.

This is what Phil remembers. Clint is gorgeous in a suit, the wool brushing tightly over his arms and back and - his very, very nice butt. Phil feels a bit awkward that his ability to suppress embarrassing thoughts about his colleagues has apparently been compromised by the brain injury. He can’t help but duck his head to check Clint out a little. Yep, he’s still got the butt - and has he always worn jeans that tight?

And now, here in a Portland safe house, in a room filled with sunlight, it’s Clint’s turn. It doesn’t help that Clint doesn’t actually know how to tie a tie backwards, so he has to stand behind Phil and wrap his hands around him, fumbling gently with the dark purple silk, as he leans over Phil's shoulder. Phil leans back easily into the taller man, and Clint tries not to move any part of his body while desperately trying to remember how to tie a simple four-in-hand knot. Phil still smells like standard issue soap and vanilla. Clint gets the knot right on the second try.

Agent Hill gapes a little when they emerge from the room. The suit fits. It definitely fits.

“You look really good, Coulson.” Hill mutters approvingly.

Clint thinks that he almost sees Phil wink when he says “I know.”

Phil Coulson looks at Agent Hill and grins. “For your records, Agent Hill. I remember that the requisition form for non standard materials is HE-20, with an addendum form HE-20a, for miscellaneous weaponry.”

Hill looks stunned, but makes a note on her clipboard anyway. “Correct, Coulson.”

The next day, when Phil emerges from the shower, there is a printed diagram of common tie knots taped to his mirror. It takes fifteen minutes, and some trial and error, but he ties a half-Windsor himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Oh, Phil remembers. Maybe not a lot of mission specifics, or how exactly to disassemble a gun, or what shoe polish he prefers, or whether he likes rye toast or not(probably not), but Clint - oh, he definitely _remembers_ Clint.

The girl with red hair. Her name is Natasha Romanoff. Her codename is Black Widow, like the spider. She used to be a Russian spy. She’s not a girl. She’s a competent, terrifying, loyal, brave woman and he remembers because Clint brought her in, the two of them limping and bleeding and holding on to each other. He remembers Clint pleading her case in front of a SHIELD review board. He remembers ignoring their blatant disregard of fraternization rules. She has saved Clint, many times. He remembers home cooked meals with her, and Clint, snuck in in safe houses and tiny SHIELD kitchenettes and rare evenings in his apartment. It’s been months of recovery, and Clint thought he was dead. Has Natasha comforted Clint in the wake of his death? She is trained to _comfort_ men. The sharp pangs of jealousy hurt more now.

Captain America is alive. Clint makes fun of him. Clint is puttering about his apartment. Clint is reorganising the spice rack, as Phil breathlessly recounts the defrosting event. Clint is flipping through redesign sketches for Captain America’s new costume, picking out the ones that Phil liked too, commenting on the placement of stars and stripes and embarrassingly - the particular tightness that the pants should be.

Tony Stark is Iron Man. Clint thinks he is a jackass.

Bruce Banner is the Hulk. The Hulk is why he had to help negotiate that godawful long contract with Stark Industries for Clint's tranquilizer arrows. It’s ridiculous how much Clint likes trick arrows. Ridiculous, but kind of cute.

His brain races through memories he’s mulled over many times before, and they are so much brighter and detailed now that they’re all he really has left.

Clint always stops by his office in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the evening, with hot coffee, cream and sugar, the way he likes it best.

The loose ceiling tile in his office - third one from the left wall, two tiles away from the door - that one is Clint’s preferred ceiling tile. After the first few months, his ears had become attuned to the subtle vibrations in the air ducts, and Clint no longer could startle him. Of course, after the first time he’d spilled hot coffee on his paperwork, Clint had also started to make a bit more noise.

Clint, always buying bags of powdered doughnuts on their drives together. Clint doesn’t even like powdered doughnuts.

Clint in a suit. Clint in SHIELD issued sweatpants. Clint in a Kevlar jumpsuit. Clint naked, languid, stretching - no, _that one_ is not an actual memory, just a recurring...thought.

Clint, baking bread. How the hell do you bake bread, anyway? Clint baked bread.

Clint’s voice, over the comms, clever, confident, snarky. Radio silence, Hawkeye. Radio silence, Hawkeye, _please_. Specialist Barton, _shut the fuck up_.

And now, Clint is here, constantly in his space, and Clint - he’s so nervous and anxious, gingerly stepping around all the declarations of affection Phil has regrettably made. Christ. Things were going so well. And then Loki - goddamn fucking Loki and his stupid fucking spear, Phil curses to himself. It’s ironic, he thinks - he’s spent so many years with Clint subtly sneaking into edges of his thoughts and having to force him out to concentrate on his work - and now there is nothing but a gigantic jumble of memories that all revolve around Clint.

But those are just memories, pleasantly existing as they are. What he has now is Clint, his entire body stiffening into a hug. Clint, who transfers him gently into bed, but takes the couch. Clint, who bolts out of the room at the sight of his scarred body. Clint - formal, and helpful, but distant. Clint, who thinks he’s forgetful, and broken, and Phil is no longer his handler, not anymore, and maybe never again.

It’s taking a lot of concentration to make sure he doesn’t accidentally confess all his inner thoughts to Clint, but he’ll make do. He’ll piece the rest of his memories back together, and fill them with new things that are not his beautiful archer, and the pain of Clint’s subtle rejections will recede, he’s sure of it.

\---

A few doctors have descended on the house for what Hill reassures him is a regular checkup, so Clint decides to go grocery shopping. When he returns, trunk full of large paper bags, Phil meets him at his car and helps him unload. Clint attempts to dissuade it, but Phil just shoots him the stink-eye in response. “Not an invalid, Barton. Just kind of forgetful.” Phil snaps. Clint apologises; he still makes sure that Phil takes the less heavy bags, though.

Phil carries in a bag of fresh vegetables, observing Clint sort out the other bags. He’s done this before. They are in Kuwait, just the two of them again. Phil had tried to stay calm in the tiny apartment repeating “Report in, Hawkeye.” over the radio, when Clint had dropped in through the window, holding a plastic bag full of groceries.

“Oh. Oops. I should have left a note.” Clint had said. Phil thinks he probably had gotten angry - he’d gotten angry at Clint fairly often -  but he definitely remembers Clint shaking up balsamic vinegar and olive oil in an old jam jar, and piecing together a simple green salad - just tomatoes, cucumber, spinach. Clint ground up peppercorns by hand with a mortar and pestle. Phil remembers the salad, fresh and light and remembers Clint’s eyes, twinkling in the evening light, and his lips, slightly chapped and dusty, and his teeth, with bits of spinach stuck between them.

Clint looks up from sliding a block of parmesan in the fridge to find Phil looking intensely at him.

“You okay, dude?” he asks, as Phil wordlessly hands him the bag of vegetables.

“Yes. Yeah. Thanks for taking care of me, Clint.” Phil says.

“Yeah. No problem.” Clint ducks to sort vegetables into the crisper. “You’ve had my back for a long time; it’s just my turn, that’s all.” he whispers - to a ripe heirloom tomato, so Phil can’t hear him or see his upper lip tremble. The tomato does not respond, and neither does Phil.

\---

Clint finishes sorting the groceries to find Phil sitting on the living room floor, piles of mission reports on the coffee table and scattered around him. Phil is flipping through one angrily.

“Hill! Where is Agent Hill?” Phil asks, loudly.

“Er, it’s just me in the house now. Hill's at the Portland field offices.”

“These are useless.” Phil sighs. “I know she meant well, but these are absolutely useless.”

Clint picks one up, and flips through it.

“I requested all the mission reports I’d ever written. I figured reading them would help jog my memory.” Phil explains.

Clint pulls a sheet out from the folder he's holding. It is mostly black. “This one is redacted. A lot.”

“Exactly. She pulled the ones at the general clearance level. They’re completely useless.” Phil whines, sinking his face into his hands. “I’ll have to request the copies for my clearance level.” He pauses, “My...old clearance level.”

  
“I - could just tell you about the missions we’ve both been on, if you want?” Clint offers.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Phil nods, “Let’s start with New Mexico.”

That’s not what Clint was expecting to hear. “New - New Mexico?” he stammers.

“That’s the last one we were on together, right?” Phil pulls out a folder at the bottom of a stack; opens and closes it casually.

“Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” Clint swallows.

This is what Clint tells Phil. There is a brilliant astrophysicist named Jane Foster in New Mexico, who finds a god. His name is Thor; she runs over him with her Jeep. Twice. She has two colleagues - Eric Selvig, and Darcy Lewis; SHIELD hires them both later. There also is a large hammer, embedded in the New Mexico desert, and no one can lift it. Thor tries once. He is sedated. He escapes from custody. Everyone thinks he’s off his rocker. There is another god - his name is Loki, and Clint thinks he’ll have to save the really awful and guilt ridden story about Loki for another time, because this one is heartrending enough. Loki is definitely off his rocker. There is a gigantic metal construct. It almost levels a town. There are other gods too. Maybe just warriors, definitely not human. There is something called the tesseract - that will become more important. Thor lifts the hammer eventually, turns out it was his all along.

When he is finished, Phil focuses his sharp brown eyes on Clint. “Is that all?”

“Yes.” Clint says.

“Are you sure?” Phil asks again, his voice taking on a particularly...field operations tone to it, that Clint is unfortunately remembering he finds incredibly sexy.

“Yes.” Clint repeats, his heart pounding.

\---

This is what Clint does not tell Phil.

New Mexico is where he finally, finally, actually asks Phil out.

It’s funny, Phil has played out this particular scenario in his head many times, the one where they finally kind of sort of ask each other out, each one a bit more romantic than the last. Perhaps in a small hospital room, after a horrid mission, waking up and seeing Clint the moment he opens his eyes, worried and relieved - well, that has sort of happened a couple times, except Clint would always be snoring in an uncomfortable chair. Perhaps in his office, Clint staring intensely from the couch, hesitant and nervous. Oh, maybe even something exceptionally cheesy - like a post-it on his monitor, or something sweet, but appropriate, like a meeting invite.

Only Agent Phil Coulson thinks that using Microsoft Outlook to schedule dates is sweet.

So, of course, when it actually does happens, it is so anticlimactic and normal and absolutely the best thing in the world.

“Need eyes up high. With a gun.” Phil commands, somehow sensing that the click he hears from the other end of the comm is not the sound of a gun being removed from a weapons rack..

“Barton, talk to me.”

“You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending him more guys to beat up.” Clint snarks softly.

 _Smartass_ , Phil thinks. “I’ll let you know.”

“Better call it, Coulson. I’m starting to root for this guy.”

“Last chance -“ Clint starts, before Phil interrupts.

“-wait. I want to see this.” Phil knows the Norse myths. Of a god, and his hammer - Mjölnir, the crusher of mountains. And this man, this unlikely, somewhat unhinged man is singularly focused on the hammer, and well, Phil just wants to see what happens.

Nothing happens.

“Show’s over.” Phil mutters, quite a bit disappointed..

The comm line clicks open.

“Hey Coulson, wanna grab a bite after this?” Clint’s voice whispers in Phil’s ear, and Phil can hear the wind whistle and the crane lower.

“I have a truck full of research to sort through, Barton. In astrophysics.” Phil sighs, knowing that he really does have a lot of reading ahead of him.

“Alright, wanna go out with me sometime then?” Clint asks, casually.

“Sure, yeah.” Phil answers immediately. Clint just means burgers after the paperwork is done, right? Like usual.

“I meant - wanna _go out_. With _me_. Sometime.” Clint clarifies awkwardly.

What? Really, Phil thinks. Now? “Barton, _no_.”

“ - no?”

“I meant, no, you are not asking me out over _an open comm line_. Specialist Barton, are you insane?” Phil groans, hearing Jasper Sitwell flick his mic on just to snicker his presence.

So, that’s the first time Clint asks Phil out. This is the do-over. Clint has played out several scenarios in his head as well. All of them involve Phil, straight backed and put together, confidently meeting his gaze. Perhaps in Phil’s office, sitting on his worn couch, as he breathlessly admits his affections. Or on a long transport home, jetlagged and tired and without defenses, honestly explaining his innermost feelings. Or in Phil’s apartment, over another one of Clint’s home cooked meals, and maybe they’d even cuddle on the couch later, Clint’s arm slinking around Phil’s firm, broad shoulders like a nervous Prom Night date.

Of course, the reality happens in a uncomfortable SHIELD trailer at three in the morning, Phil looking slightly rumpled, shirt sleeves rolled up, hunched over piles of research notebooks that he’s sorting through in frustration.

“So - “ Clint starts, poking his head into the trailer hesitantly.

“Yes.” Phil says, not looking up.

“You want to go out with me?”

“Yes.”

“On a date.”

“Yes.”

“You like me?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, _like me_ , like me?” Clint insists.

Phil finally looks up, and meets his eyes. His face is soft and calm. “Fury’s assigned you to watch duty on Project Pegasus, leaving at dawn. I’m sorry. But when you get back, I would love to go out. On a date. With you.”

“You could visit me there.” Clint grins, feeling the years of withheld emotions dissipate..

“I can. It’s probably my next assignment actually. But, that building has has an awful cafeteria. I’ve been waiting for years; you’re taking me on a _real_ date, Barton, and absolutely not to a SHIELD cafeteria. And not Chili’s, which I think is the only thing within an hour’s drive of that facility. Something nice.” Phil commands, and Clint’s heart is warm, and at home. Phil’s been waiting for _years_ , he’d said, not particularly breathlessly - but he _admitted_ it - and Clint is over the moon. Clint wants to crawl over the mountains of paperwork and _fucking kiss Phil already_ , but the senior agent is already shooing him away, telling him to get some rest.

This can work, Clint thinks; this the sort of life you have when you’re in love with your handler, there’ll always be missions and assignments, and rare snatched pieces of domesticity in little corners of their schedules, and that’s okay. It’ll start - in fits and jolts - but it’ll start somewhere, and Clint knows of a cosy little Italian place near the SHIELD field offices in New York.

Phil does get assigned to Project Pegasus, but before he can see Clint again, Loki has taken his archer away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, thank you for the subscriptions and kudos-es! We're about halfway through the actual word count, and the rest is mostly written and the other remaining chapters(probably 5, maybe 6 total) will most likely be posted daily.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint’s seventh day with Coulson is spent wandering around Portland, on Agent Hill’s direction. “We’re graduating you from physical and speech therapy, Coulson.” she instructs over speakerphone. ”You should take Barton for a walk; he’s going stir crazy.”

Clint is prepared to play tour guide, and has printed out a list of interesting things, complete with detailed directions because he’s never been in Oregon before, but Phil only looks at it and laughs. “I’m from Portland, Clint. Does the Original Pancake House still exist?”

Clint looks down at his list, where he has listed five possible breakfast joints. The Original Pancake House is one of them. “Yes. 24th Avenue?”

“Southwest 24th Avenue. Great. You’re driving, and I’m buying. You’ll love this place.” Phil smiles, pulling on his shoes.

Phil keeps up a happy chatter as they drive to breakfast, about not very much at all - the size of Original Pancake House Apple Pancakes, the last episode of Supernanny he’d watched and very detailed and cohesive opinions and thoughts about the intricacies of Portland weather. It’s a bit odd, Clint thinks, Phil never used to say much unless it was important.

Phil doesn’t like talking about nothing, it’s true. But right now, he’s a bit more scared about accidentally talking about all the important things.

At the Pancake House, Phil orders a short stack of buttermilk pancakes. Clint orders the apple pancake, which the restaurant promises is a specialty. It is as large as his face, and Clint decides he’s going to need to add a large cast iron pan to the kitchen when he goes home. _Home_ , it’s funny - he’s now started to think of Stark Tower in New York as home. Just a few months ago, home had looked like it was going to be wherever Phil Coulson was. They eat peaceably. Phil devours his pancakes.

“You’re a good friend, Clint.” Phil says suddenly, smiling brightly, and Clint thinks that the word _friend_ has never cut so deeply.

\---

“Can we drive by a couple places?” Phil asks, when they get back in the car. He enters two addresses into the car's GPS, before Clint can actually answer. Clint follows the robotic British voice to a mid-century ranch house, long, flat and narrow, nestled in a boring suburban neighbourhood. The neighbourhood is mostly well trimmed lawns and large trees, with toys scattered in a few front yards.

There is an old woman with an umbrella open, watering plants outside the house they’re looking at.

“Isn’t that a bit redundant? It’s raining.” Clint points out.

“That’s my _mom_.” Phil says. “She thinks I’m dead.”

“Are you going to say hi?”

“No, she thinks I’m dead.” Phil repeats.

Clint looks at the address for the next house. It’s only two doors down, so he just edges the car up the street. The house is dark, and there is a late ‘80s Volvo station wagon parked in the driveway. Phil is silent next to him, eyes trained solemnly on the new house.

Clint sees the light flip on in the living room, and then the silhouette of a small woman through the thick drapes, framed by large bay windows. She is skinny, with curly hair. And then a shadow of a large object, almost as tall as her, a skinny neck and a wide body -  oh, it’s a cello. This is Phil’s cellist.

“Do you remember her?” Clint asks, past the gigantic lump threatening to block his trachea.

“Not everything.” Phil admits.

Clint doesn’t know much about Phil’s cellist because Phil never spoke much about his personal life - but he certainly knew _of_ her. Someone important, someone that exists in Phil's personnel file, if with minimal detail. So, despite knowing better, he makes up the story in his head. A childhood friend, a neighbour. A growing relationship that never really blossomed because Phil always worked too much. Christmases and holidays spent together. Phil remembered her house. Phil will remember the rest soon, and he’ll remember all the important parts about her - he’s been remembering so much lately - and she might learn he’s alive, and Phil will knock on the door, like in those overwrought romance movies Phil likes, and they’ll embrace each other, her eyes filled with grateful tears -  

The cellist plays a few difficult scales that carry through the staccato of the late morning rain drizzle and Clint desperately swallows a few difficult emotions.

\---

On the eighth day Clint spends in Portland, the doorbell rings, and Clint opens the door slowly, with a handgun behind his back. He is greeted by a stack of boxes, and the sight of a USPS truck driving away. Clint is considering whether to contact Agent Hill for bomb squad evaluation, when Phil peeks out behind him. “Oooh, my books.” Phil exclaims.

Phil opens boxes and starts stacking books up on the coffee table. “My last clear and complete memories are of undergraduate school. So, instead of just sitting around trying to remember things after that, I thought I’d just start rebuilding from that point,” he tells Clint.

“With... _these_ books?” Clint opens a large box and pulls out a dogeared copy of Beowulf.

“I went to grad school for Medieval Literature.”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely serious. And I’m pretty sure you already knew that. I’ve read my _own_ records by now. I didn’t finish the program, though; I got sidetracked and recruited by SHIELD. Here, you’ll like this one.” Phil says, handing Clint a book from the box. It is a thin, blue, paperback.

“The Gest of Robyn Hoode.” Clint reads the cover.

“It’s about an archer.” Phil explains.

“Come on, Phil. You don’t need a GED - by the way, I _do_ have one of those - to know who Robin Hood is.” Clint flips to the first page. “Give ear and listen gentle men, that be of free born blood. I shall you tell of a good yeoman...Phil, you’re kidding right?”

“What? It’s the translation.”

“...translated from what?” Clint runs his fingers along the spine.

Phil grins. “Middle English. The original is in that book too. Want me to read it to you?”

Clint ends up lying on the couch as Phil reads, his voice ringing out confidently in Middle English. It’s soothing, and strong, and after just a while, Clint understands enough of it, the words an amalgam of languages he’s already familiar with, and the intonation not completely foreign. And also, because Phil has done this before.

Clint is on the top of an old hotel, wedged in between an incongruous air-conditioning duct and an intricately carved rain gutter. It is cold and wet, a bird has just pooped on him, and it is only the fourth hour of waiting.

“Agent Coulson. Hawkeye reporting in. This is fucking boring. Over.” Clint mutters, checking in on their private channel.

“Roger that, Hawkeye. What do you want me to do about it, Princess?” Phil answers,

“I dunno, tell me a bedtime story? Something with princesses and dragons.” Clint jokes.

“What about knights?” Phil plays along.

“Sure, I like knights.”

And that’s how Agent Phil Coulson, sitting on a ratty hotel room mattress and surrounded by surveillance equipment, ends up summarizing the story of Sir Gawain, knight of King Arthur’s court, to his sniper sitting four stories above, lapsing into Middle English excerpts when he remembers them. Their target never shows, and Clint does not care at all. He will take being pooped on by a million birds if he can have Phil’s voice in his ear forever, speaking any variant of any language.

Back in Portland, Phil finishes the last words of the poem, and looks over at Clint, who is stretched out on the couch, smiling softly with eyes closed. Clint looks relaxed, and impossibly gorgeous, and Phil tries to burn the happy image into his brain, to recollect later when he’s alone.

“Did I put you to sleep?”

“No.” Clint sits up, and bends over the pile of books, searching for the one that he knows.

“What’s in this one?” Clint asks innocently, holding up a copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the cover embellished with a pixellated reprint of an illuminated manuscript.

Phil frowns, “I’ve already told you that story. On the roof of the Victoria Hotel, about a year ago.”

“Right.” Clint looks down at the book awkwardly. “I was just...testing you,” he says, avoiding Phil’s eyes.

\---

Clint gets the call to report in for an assignment at four in the morning, ten days after he first arrives in Portland. He picks himself off the couch, trying to work out the building knots in his back with one hand. A car will arrive for him in an hour, Agent Sitwell had said. Something about a small Greek fishing village.

Clint nudges Phil’s door open. Phil is sleeping, of course. He is soft and rumpled. He has thrown off the blankets and is wrapped around a pillow, snoring lightly. Clint wants to curl up behind Phil, fit his body around the smaller man, push his face into the short hairs on Phil’s neck, kiss him awake - instead, Clint shuts the door lightly, and doesn't try to say goodbye.

He has just finished packing his small bag when the front door unlocks and Maria Hill walks in, carrying a large stack of folders in a plastic milk crate.

“What are you doing, Barton?” she asks, a bit sharply, if sleepily.

“Sitwell called and requested me for a mission in Greece?”

“Huh.” She sets down the crate and stretches, suppressing a yawn. “Yeah, you’re not going. Direct orders from Fury. And make sure Coulson burns these after reading - I might have accidentally printed the reports for my clearance level, not his.”

Clint raises an eyebrow that demands further explanation.

“I’m pulling rank. Sitwell can find another sniper. In the few days you’ve been here, Coulson has started regaining memories at an unprecedented rate. I can’t pretend to explain it, although his cognitive therapist has a few theories, but you’re staying right here.” Hill softens her edges. “It’s not just a matter of SHIELD assets, you know? I - I want Phil back too.”

Clint nods, and then looks quizzically at Hill.

“He...remembers more when I’m around?” Clint ventures, timidly.

“Barton. _Come on_.“ Hill exhales. “I know we have fraternization rules. I also know you and Agent Romanoff have already broken them on several occasions, and regardless, obeying rules has never been your specialty. And I _also_ know that you pretend to be dumber than you actually are, but if you can’t tell that Coulson clearly cares a lot about you, you really are an idiot.”

“What do you mean?” Clint is pretty sure he knows what Hill means, but there is no space for error, or he may die of utter humiliation.

“Literally every thing he remembers has something to do with you. This could not be more obvious, right?”

“Not...everything. What about the...form he remembered a week ago?”

“Requisition Form HE-20a for non standard weaponry and ammunition? The one that only ever gets filled out for carbon arrows? Gee, Specialist Barton, I’m sure those get filled out all the time for our _other_ agents who insist on using compound bows in the field,” She rolls her eyes and continues, “Look. I’m pretty sure you care about him too, and in _that_ way. But just in case you decide to be even more of an idiot than you’re already being, here’s a warning. Break his heart, and I will _personally eviscerate you_.” Hill is terrifying, and Clint, bless his soul, is actually appropriately terrified.

“Right.” Clint mutters. “So, you think I should...talk to him?”

Hill glares, “Barton, _for fuck’s sake_ ,” and storms outside, throwing her arms up in the air comically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, they'll have the talk in the next chapter. I'm sorry, this one is all about feeeeeelings.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are extremely brief, but there are references to past injuries, and a vague reference to past abuse. Just a warning. But y'know, there's finally kissing in this chapter, so yaaay. 
> 
> (the last chapter is mostly epilogue and wrapping up loose ends, and all nice and sweet, to make up for subjecting y'all to all the stupid boy feeeelings.)

Clint walks deep grooves into the carpet waiting for Phil to wake up. His brain is working overtime, and his thoughts - mostly of Phil - crawl over one another indecipherably and refuse to do him the favour of just sorting themselves out. So, Clint does the only thing he can think of when he’s pretty sure he’s going to make a fool of himself and needs more outside confirmation; he calls Natasha.

“It’s four thirty in the morning, Clint. I’ve just gotten back from Bucharest and I’m actually jetlagged, so this had better be important.” Natasha growls, but she did pick up the phone immediately.

“Bucharest? What were you doing in Bucharest?”

“Never mind, how’s Coulson?” she evades.

“He’s good. He’s remembering more. He’s starting to remember you.”

“Really? Let me know when he wants to see me?”

“Definitely. Hey - you know I like Phil, right? The _like_ kind of like?”

“Of course I do, you idiot.” Okay, that’s confirmed.

“Agent Hill just suggested I _tell_ him. With _words_.”

Natasha sighs exaggeratedly. “She does outrank you by quite a bit.”

“Tashaaaa. I’m _scaaaaared_.” Clint whines. He can whine to Natasha, she understands.

“Clint, my darling, my precious, sweetie-pie, repeat after me. _I must not fear_.” Natasha instructs.

“Um, I must not fear?”

“Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.”

“Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.” he repeats.

“I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.”

“I will face my fear. I will permit it to  - _goddammit, Romanoff_!” Clint swears as he finally recognizes the words, and he hears his partner cackle wildly as she hangs up on him.

Clint’s mind flashes to Budapest. Natasha is splayed out on a blood soaked mattress, bandaged but conscious, whimpering loudly, proving the oft repeated SHIELD rumour that she can’t feel pain, absolutely and desperately wrong. The extent of her injuries are unknown, except that there’s likely several shattered ribs, a probable punctured lung, and she’s in the worst shape she’s ever been in, and she refuses to take painkillers - not that it matters because they don’t have any anyway. They have to get to the extraction point in the next thirty six minutes, and Natasha grimly tries to hold herself up, but yells out in pain every time they try to move her.

Worst of all, is the terror in Natasha’s eyes. “I think I’m actually going to die this time,” she spits, blood spackling her lips, preparing to shatter the other SHIELD rumour that she might be immortal. “I don’t think I’m actually ready for that,” she winces, shivering wildly and somewhat uncontrollably. Phil crouches by her and grabs her hand, which she squeezes bone-crushingly hard.

“Natasha. Listen to me. Just focus on me.” Phil commands.

“Y-yes.”

“Focus, Romanoff. Repeat after me. _I must not fear_.”

“I - I must not fear.” she gasps out.

“Fear is the mind killer.”

“Fear - fear is the mind killer? Coulson, what are you - ”

“Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration...” Phil continues, and that sentence is complex enough to stun Natasha into repeating after him. Her voice becomes steadier as she whispers the words Phil feeds her, the hitch in her breathing easing up, although pain is still apparent in every one of her movements.

“What were you reciting?” Clint asks, his own trembling fingers trying to super-glue a gigantic gash on his own side together.

“The Litany Against Fear, from Dune. Er, it’s from a science fiction novel from the ‘60s.” Phil explains, taking over the field medic duties and tending to Clint’s side himself, “It’s a really dorky thing, I just thought it might help distract her.”

“Thanks, Phil,” Clint whispers, exhausted.

They manage to wrangle Natasha into a wheelbarrow, toss a large, ratty, blanket over her, and make it to the extraction point with seven minutes to spare, the Natasha-shaped bundle of cloth whispering softly - “I- I will face my fear...permit it to pass over me...when the fear has gone there is nothing...only I remain.”

Natasha adopts the litany as a personal mantra after that, leading to yet another inaccurate SHIELD rumour that the Black Widow is a gigantic sci-fi nerd. She still hasn’t gotten around to reading Dune, but Phil had made sure that she at least watched the miniseries. The litany becomes another inside joke that the three of them share, and that Natasha uses at the most inappropriate times, even if Clint always takes a few lines to catch on.

Now, back in Portland, Clint mumbles the oft-repeated lines to himself. It is an oddly multi purposed little poem, he has come to realize. Eventually, he falls back asleep, wedged uncomfortably into a corner of the couch.

\---

He wakes to Phil already suited and sitting cross legged on the floor, reading reports from Hill’s crate. There are already the remains of a few folders smoldering in the fireplace, the embers and sparks of classified documents bouncing off the fireplace grate. The burning wood in the fireplace masks the scent of coffee, drifting in below the smell of crackling pine, and the scent of...burnt eggs?

“Good morning, Clint.” Phil mumbles, “I tried to make scrambled eggs for you, but they were awful. I guess I’ve forgotten to make scrambled eggs,” he says, poking at a sad looking plate of charred egg-blob.

“No, you never knew how to make scrambled eggs,” Clint corrects, “They’ve always been awful - wait, you tried to make me breakfast?”

Phil shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts, right? I also made coffee.”

Clint takes a deep breath. It’s now or never, although “never” honestly doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, no matter what Natasha or Hill are harassing him into doing. One more deep breath , just one more - and then he looks up, and Phil has disappeared. Oh, wonderful. This is working well. Perfect timing as always, Barton, spot on. Clint sighs and wanders over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Phil in the kitchen. Clint brushes his teeth, then fills the sink and dunks his head into the cool basin. He exhales in the water. Okay, he can do this. He is a smooth secret agent, a highly trained spy, a competent, marvelous, dashing, amazing, brilliant - nope, he’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself.

Phil is back on the floor when Clint returns, and picks one of two mugs of coffee up from his side. “Coffee,” he says, waving the mug at Clint, his face already buried in another classified folder.

“You...remember the way I take my coffee.” Clint says, looking at the mug.

Phil lifts his head up for a second, “Um. Black. That’s not difficult.”

“Phil?” Clint collects his nerves again,” ...can we talk?” It’s not easy confessing things to Phil Coulson - especially feelings. And oh, he has a lot of _feelings_ right now. They’re piling up, one after another, terror and anxiety being the most prominent. I must not fear, he thinks. Damn you, Hill, he thinks. If you wanted me to do shit like this, SHIELD should have trained me for it, he thinks. 

Phil looks at Clint with sad eyes, runs his hands through his hair awkwardly, and sets Clint’s coffee back down by the couch, “Yes, we can talk, but before you say anything - _I think I love you_.”

“What?” That was really not what Clint was expecting. Hoping, maybe, but certainly not _expecting_.

“I - I don’t have much of a filter anymore, I’m sorry. And I understand if the way I’ve been acting makes you uncomfortable. I appreciate you staying here, and helping me out - although I suppose you’re assigned to do so anyway, and like I said - _I love you_ \- fuck it, I’m just spilling things out now - but I’ll completely understand if you can’t reciprocate, but I just thought you should know and _goddammit_ , this is really quite embarrassing - ” Phil says, clapping his hands over his own mouth, physically trying to keep the words in.

“Phil - I - “

“I remember New Mexico _just fine_. Well, I had to review a report for the specific mission details, but the important part? _I remembered_. I’d _always_ remembered and will you please stop me from talking -” Phil mumbles behind his hand.

“Dammit, Phil.” Clint swears, pushes Phil’s hands away, and kisses him.

The kiss is gentle at first, but it is Phil that leans strongly into Clint, tasting like coffee and cream and sugar and sunlight and years of deferred truths. Clint tastes like toothpaste.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you remembered New Mexico?” Clint mutters under his breath, their lips still brushing together.

“You’ve been distant. Formal. When you refused to tell me what happened - I just thought you didn’t want me, weren’t interested anymore...” Phil whispers.

“ - No, I just didn’t want to take advantage - I didn’t know what you still remembered - what you still wanted -“

“ - I don’t have to be brain damaged and broken to love you, you know?”

“Goddammit, you’re not broken.” Clint sighs, ”Just kind of forgetful, last time I checked.” .

“I remember _you_.” Phil says.

\---

Clint decides that the only thing more delicious than Phil Coulson getting dressed in a suit is the sight of Phil Coulson removing himself from one. Maybe next time, he’ll help - and oh , he is looking forward to _helping_ \- but this time, the first time, he is absolutely enthralled just by the smooth glimpses of skin under the shirt collar as Phil briskly disentangles his tie. He’s seen Phil’s _neck_ before, of course, but context really does matters.

Phil’s hands do not tremble as he undoes his shirt’s buttons. There aren’t many things he can be certain about, but this one - the one where Clint is sitting on the edge of a bed, watching him with clear, wide eyes, his gorgeous lips slightly agape - this absolute certainty is one that he will grab and protect and _remember_.

Clint reaches his hand out, tracing the scar tissue of the spear-scar on Phil’s chest. It is pink, and raised, and ugly. Loki. “This one is my fault.” he says, quietly.

“No, not that one.”

“Not _that one_?”

“ - shhhh.” Phil insists, but Clint already knows the other scars that mark Phil’s body. A quarter inch from Phil’s right index finger, lost under interrogation, refusing to give up Clint’s sniper position. The palms of Phil’s hands, streaked from broken glass, from retrieving him from an overturned car. Underwater. He runs his hands reverently over Phil’s lower back, touching a collection of small, raised scars - shrapnel sustained from an exploding building. Phil had gone back in for him. Clint inhales sharply at that one; they had both barely made it out.

In response, Phil yanks off Clint’s shirt, pulling it insistently over his head.

“Are we playing this game now, Barton?” Phil asks, running his hands over Clint’s chest, stopping at a long scar above his belly button.”This one, from when you had to smuggle my unconscious body out of Thailand and somehow had to fight off a local gang in the process.” Phil’s hands move to Clint’s rib cage, rubbing a deep indentation between the lower ribs, “Budapest.” he says, “That sucked. I wouldn’t mind forgetting that one, actually.” He kisses a bullet entry wound on Clint’s right shoulder, “Spotted by enemy sniper during hostile negotiations. I didn’t come for you immediately, even though you’d missed your regular check in with me.”

Phil pauses and thinks hard then, his fingers tracing long scars that criss-cross Clint’s back. “I don’t remember these ones,” he says.

“Not SHIELD related. I haven’t told you about those.” Clint answers. Those scars date back to his circus days.

“You will,” Phil says, confidently, and Clint decides that he will - yes, they can carry each other’s secrets and memories now, share the burdens of their scars, and their guilty stories, and unnecessary deaths, and bad calls, and fallen colleagues, and he’ll let Phil hold the bright blue of Loki’s eyes, and it’ll be okay. Phil has his back. He has Phil’s back. That’s just how it has always been, and always will be.

 

And now, well - “Um, Phil, I don’t have any scars on my butt.” Clint says, feeling Phil’s exploratory fingers dive down past his waistband.

Phil smirks, “I don't believe you. Prove it,” he says, his hands moving forward to unbutton the annoyingly tight jeans that Clint wears.

 

“Are - are you sure we should do this? You’re still recovering from - ” Clint asks, fumbling particularly ungracefully at Phil’s belt buckle.

“Why not? It works. I’ve checked.” Phil responds, gesturing at his own pants.

“What works? Oh, _oh_ \- that’s not what I meant,” Clint mumbles, blushing furiously.

“Are you actually blushing, _Specialist Barton_?” Phil says, and he’s using his _Agent_ voice, the one that makes Clint’s toes curl and his heart pound and _fuuuuck, Phil knows_ -

“You - you’re using _that voice_.” Clint blurts accusingly.

 

The grin that Phil flashes him is positively, heartrendingly, _evil_ and Clint falls backwards, and head over heels, into it, gladly.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint is nuzzling into the back of Phil’s neck for the umpteenth time that day, when he realizes he hasn’t asked the remaining question.

“Phil. What about...your cellist?” Clint asks, slowly disentangling his limbs from the other man

“Oh, right. I just reviewed the report on that. You can read it - oh, I’ve already filed it into the fireplace. Er, it’s easier if I just show you.”

They drive back to the residential neighbourhood, parking in front of the house with bay windows, and Clint settles in for a wait, observing Phil lean calmly against the car’s tinted windows. They don’t have to wait long, though. The garage door rolls open, and the cellist bursts out in a hurry, lugging her heavy case behind her.

The cellist is just a girl. She’s short but lanky, of probably South Indian heritage, and dressed in an artfully torn sweater, skinny jeans, and a obnoxiously large studded belt. Her hair is big and purposefully messy, and she’s wearing an inordinate amount of eyeshadow. She - _she’s just a girl_ , Clint thinks, reorganizing all his thoughts and assumptions as quickly as he can.

“Love you, Ma! I’m late!” she shouts towards the open garage, tossing the large cello case into back of the Volvo, slamming the hatch down. The station wagon makes an inelegant three point turn, narrowly missing their unmarked vehicle and speeds off down the street, quite a bit over the speed limit.

“She bought my old car from my parents,” Phil smiles. Seeing Clint’s confused look, he explains further, “She graduated from Berklee last year and moved back home with her family. She’s a cellist with the Multnomah County Symphony, and also plays in a punk band. They’re...well, they’re okay, the band is very...Portland. Punk orchestra isn’t really my thing.”

“Clearly, she’s not your girlfriend.” Clint points out, somewhat dumbly.

Phil raises an eyebrow. “She’s _nineteen_ , Clint. Of course not.”

Phil continues talking as they pull out and drive away.

“It was my first mission. I was still a junior agent. Her father was an arms smuggler.”

“Her mother?”

“My first civilian lost. I made a bad call. She had no other relatives; she was going to go into an orphanage - Clint, she was barely one.”

“You found her a family.” _Family_ , Clint thinks. He has his family all back together now. That’s what Phil does, doesn’t he? He finds people families; builds them himself. He adopts snipers from wretched circuses, tired Russian spies, the lost and lonely - keeps them, and makes them family.

“Yeah. They’re retired SHIELD agents who’d always wanted a child. SHIELD helped with the adoption process. They keep me updated, send me cards. I sometimes visit on Christmas - I mean, our families are practically neighbours, although that was just a coincidence. Well, mostly, my mother used to be a real estate agent and I recommended her when they were house searching. I’m Uncle Phil, you know,” Phil grins wryly, “They were at the memorial. I hear she played something incredibly sad.”

“I wouldn’t have noticed,” Clint admits, “I was a bit preoccupied with - y’know - grief and self loathing.”

“Oh, _Clint_.” Phil mutters, reaching over to pull him close, and if the parking brake is digging painfully into his side, and Clint has to correct the car’s swerving down the residential street, neither of them quite care.

\---

The memories come back, mostly. The ones with Clint in them keep on rushing in. More are pieced together from mission reports and documentaries and news articles and books. Phil rebuilds decades of knowledge, and the corresponding memories slide in alongside, sometimes gently and fluidly, and sometimes, with gut-wrenching sadness and guilt.

There are still some gaps, and some inexplicable changes, and the doctors think there will always be. Not all of them are bad. He drinks coffee less. He remembers liking powdered doughnuts, but they don’t taste all that great anymore, so he stops eating them. Clint catches on, and starts to bring him carrot sticks instead. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Clint that he has never liked carrot sticks, and still doesn’t, so he eats them, and decides that they’re probably good for him anyway.

He has a new secret now, that only Clint knows. He’s always been a bit groggy in the morning, but instead of being grumpy until the first caffeine intake, like previously, he is now obnoxiously loopy and giggly, whispering sweet somethings into Clint’s ear, demanding cuddles like a precocious kitten. Most days, Clint has to peel him off and pour him into the shower. They tell no one. It certainly wouldn’t behoove his serious reputation. So, there’s that. Clint knows he giggles.

\---

Phil is a bit star struck when he meets the Avengers(again), but he definitely remembers enough to make sure he scowls a bit at Stark, for old times sake. Stark throws a welcome home party in his penthouse. It is raucous. Jesus Christ, Thor is loud. Was Thor always that loud?

He doesn’t have his own apartment anymore, so Tony offers to build him rooms in Stark Tower, but Clint says “it’s fine, he’ll just move in with me” and the nonchalance of Clint’s commitment knocks Phil off his feet. Phil had been anticipating the build up to lots of “talks” -  talks about overnight visits, talks about leaving toothbrushes behind, talks about clearing out bottom drawers, talks about lots of little relationship steps, but Clint slots himself into Phil’s life, demandingly, insistently, and Phil loves it.

And hoooly shit, Clint lives with Captain America. And he’s going to move in with Clint, which means that _he_ is going to live with Captain America. Steve. Captain America had insisted that Phil call him Steve. It takes him several weeks to get over that, but that has nothing to do with the brain injury at all, just y’know, a natural reaction to _eating breakfast with his childhood hero_.

\---

Pepper Potts helps to wrangle a very under-the-table settlement between SHIELD and Phil’s family, so Phil’s mother gets to keep the previously paid death benefits, but also gets to find out Phil is actually still alive.  

Phil brings Clint back to Portland, and this time they go in to the long, flat suburban mid-century ranch house, and the reunion is full of tears, and Clint understands where Phil’s awful cooking comes from as they suffer through a damp homemade tuna casserole. Mrs. Coulson is overwhelmingly sweet, a bit senile, and positively thrilled that Phil has a boyfriend. Phil’s sister is hilarious. Clint doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing baby pictures of Phil, and if he can’t cry in front of Mama Coulson, then there is no safe harbour in the world, and that’s how Phil and Mama Coulson end up feeding warm milk and cookies to a blubbering heap of Clint, until he cries out all those happy tears and falls asleep in front of the fireplace with his head burrowed in Phil’s lap. The cookies are from pre-made Toll House dough; even the combined kitchen incompetence of several Coulsons in one room can’t screw those up.

The cellist is wonderful and chatty. She calls him Uncle Clint.

Clint offers to cook the Thanksgiving dinner.

\---

A lot of things just have to be relearned, Phil thinks, staring at the pieces of Clint’s mostly disassembled handgun. He consults the printed manual. The first time disassembling and reassembling it takes eleven minutes. The hundred and sixty fourth time takes fifty two seconds.

It’s work. It’s a whole lot of work. Phil gets to know JARVIS very well.

When Clint isn’t on a mission, he sits with Phil. Phil reads aloud when Clint’s around. Clint listens to Phil read papers from college, old letters, textbooks, meeting notes - he decides he likes pre-1800 poetry best.

Natasha makes him flashcards of all the people he’s supposed to remember, right down to his mailman and his usual Thai food delivery boy. He does not ask her how she even knows who the delivery boy is, much less his medical history and community class schedule, but he’s pretty confident he now actually knows more faces that he’d started out with. Natasha plays Scrabble with him too, at least for a while. He wins, every time. It turns out that Natasha actually does flip tables when she suffers too many losses in a row.

Maria Hill blatantly disregards his current clearance level, and continues to provide him with mission reports. He reads, and he reads, and he remembers.

\---

One year and two months after he is killed by Loki, Phil re-qualifies as a SHIELD senior analyst, but in deference to his long and distinguished service, is given his old office, his clearance level, and former rank back. Fury conveniently ignores that he isn’t _technically_ requalified as a field agent yet; he still hasn’t been able to pass the stringent physical requirements due to reduced lung capacity from the original spear injury. But, as long as he doesn’t get involved in any firefights, doesn’t carry a weapon in the field, and isn’t _technically_ on the mission, he can do “analyst work” in the surveillance van, watch Clint on the monitors, and whisper incredibly unprofessional things on their private comm line. Only on low-priority missions; Agent Phil Coulson is not irresponsible.

“Welcome back, Phil,” Agent Hill says the first day, adding another stack of a paperwork on his already covered desk. “Thank you, Maria,” Phil answers, “For _everything_.” Hill grins. She understands.

Maria Hill never tells Clint why she’d taken months off her regular duties as SHIELD’s second in command to teach Phil how to open jars, walk, run, drive, and do yoga again, but Clint decides that whatever it was, he is very grateful, and she now finds the most amazing fresh baked homemade cookies parked on her desk on a bi-weekly basis. Mainly because...well, Phil didn’t do any yoga _before_ the injury.

Agent Maria Hill expands her handler duties to include Clint as well, with Sitwell as backup when she has other more pressing SHIELD business to attend to. But it is an open secret that on difficult missions with Hawkeye and Black Widow, there’s always an open comm line to Phil Coulson’s office, and they take his “recommendations” into account more often that not.

That is not to say that anyone goes easy on Agent Phil Coulson. Agent Coulson gets a mountain of senior analyst duties added to his plate, and he singlehandedly uncovers two HYDRA bases in South America that an entire team has been trying to locate for months. Agent Coulson is also given the reins on linguistics training for new recruits, develops an additional fifty six pages of handling protocol for alien objects, and since he has now read every mission report ever written in SHIELD history(he didn’t have to, it’s not like he’d actually read all of them before), the lead archivist has been dropping by his office daily for filing advice and history briefings.

Clint brings him coffee in his old coffee mug.

“Hey, that’s my old mug.” Phil brushes the small chip on the handle. “Your first day reporting in for duty, and you decided to do it through my ceiling.”

“You dropped the mug. Spilled coffee all over your desk. Everyone said you were unflappable, so _that_ was surprising.” Clint snickers.

“I _am_ unflappable.” Phil insists.

“So, it’s just me you can’t resist?”

“Yeah, it’s just you, Clint. Get out of my office, I’m working.”

“Do you want lasagna tonight?”

“Yes, please.”

“Love you, sugar buns.”

“ _Get out, Specialist Barton_.” Phil commands, grinning happily.

When Avengers business ramps up, and Hawkeye and Black Widow start spending more time as Avengers, and less time as SHIELD personnel, Agent Coulson is assigned a new position as SHIELD liaison to the Avengers. No one is certain if it is meant as a punishment or a promotion, but he has to work very hard to hold in the tiny squeaks his little fanboy heart makes when Captain America tells Hawkeye not to fall off buildings.

But, Hawkeye leaps off buildings a lot less now anyway. Clint has someone to see at the end of the fight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with me for six chapters of feelings, everyone! This is my longest fic yet...it was fun. :)
> 
> Up next, a Maria Hill and Phil buddyfic, I think...?


End file.
